The Invisible Man
by Saphyr88
Summary: A series of one-shots based on Nigel Griffin's adventures and run-ins with various members of the Five, mostly set during the 1890s. Expect bank robbery, colonial adventure, Tesla, Watson and Druitt! In non-chronological order. Rated T for some direct, coarse language, and violence.
1. Chapter 1 - King Solomon's Mines

**Author's Note:**

Hopefully this fan-fiction will take the form of a series of little one shots based around Nigel Griffin and various members of the Five. Set largely in the 1890s it explores what Nigel got up to, and his relationship to each of them – stuff which was largely left to our imaginations in the show. I mean, all we've got to go on is the Worth flashbacks, For King and Country, and Normandy, to understand what kind of a man he is. So I hope these little one shots ring true to what little we saw of his character.

Rated T for language – may get up-ed if something particularly violent happens!

DISCLAIMER: Don't own any characters or Sanctuary, or any images from Sanctuary – don't claim to own them, love them dearly, just tinkering and having fun, not making any money! Please don't sue.

* * *

"_King Solomon's Mines"_

**London**

**Spring, 1896**

No matter how quiet, no matter how simple the plan, there was always a nervy thrill that knocked through Nigel Griffin whenever he turned his hand to theft. He was a man driven by circumstance, not design: so that even now, robbing from these privileged bastards, he still did his best to rationalise his behaviour. _It was blood money_, he insisted mentally, _heading into the hands of even more unscrupulous men_: men who had connections, and found themselves at the heart of criminality without ever realising it.

Never mind the fact that he'd promised himself he wouldn't do this after Australia, never mind the stunning belle he'd kissed on the forehead this evening, draining away every honest shilling he'd ever made.

He was just too proud to admit when he needed help. Growing up in a terrace house, with never enough money, his family had been staunchly proud of their ability to get by without charity. It was an attitude they had successfully imparted upon their intelligent, ambitious son, and one he'd never been able to shake off. Even when his methods of getting that money were decidedly less honest than turning to friends – well, they had their own problems, they didn't need his too.

Invisible skin could still itch, and as Griffin listened for the click of the lock he was turning, he knew he shouldn't be there. But how else was he going to pay for that dress she bought, or the hotel they were staying in, or the fantastic places they went to? And she did look so good in that dress.

Pushing open the door to the vault, Nigel opened up the hessian sack bundled into his hand and started picking out the pound notes in large wads, stuffing them in.

"Nigel?"

Griffin nearly jumped out of his transparent skin at the sudden, unexpected, and yet familiar voice. Spinning on his heel he found none other than James Watson, poised exactly three feet away, walking stick levelled in the strategic position to strike, should the need arise, at his neck. As always, James was looking almost dead into his eyes, despite the fact he couldn't see him. The moment Griffin saw him he knew there was no point pretending. This was Watson, after all, old Sherlock Holmes never missed a trick.

"Alright," he admitted, still clutching the sack but putting his hands up in surrender, "you got me."

To be honest, he should've known. After the first robbery made it to the Nationals, he should've realised that Watson would be put on the case. Stupid, stupid Griffin. Should've switched town. Should've gone to Edinburgh or something.

"What in the devil are you playing at?" Watson asked, staring down that aquiline nose of his, whiskers twitching in concern.

"Well," he chuckled to himself, "what does it look like?"

Watson grimaced at the pun and chose to ignore it, threatening a little more closely with his cane, "Are you _mad_" he started to whisper earnestly, "the _Bank of England_?"

"I couldn't resist."

"_How long_?"

Griffin could tell his old friend was more upset than he was letting on, and regretted the fact. James' body was boiling beneath the skin, the tense reservation in his lips holding back his extreme distaste for Nigel's behaviour. It was betrayal – he felt betrayed. Just like with Druitt. His friend carrying out the crime behind his back… Griffin hadn't discussed it over brandy, hell, he hadn't even told them he was back in old Blighty, but still… He should've known better than to stab a friend in the back like that. Only he didn't think, did he? He was just being clever, and then got addicted to the sensation. Within the Five he had never been better or brighter at anything except this.

The shame was enough to make Nigel slip back into observable light, completely starker's. He used the bag of money to cover himself, and hunched his shoulders just a little; like a child caught stealing cakes… and Nigel _had_ always been an opportunist.

"Only twice before," His shrug belied how horrible he felt right about now.

"Then why didn't you visit us? You know you are always welcome, you don't have to _steal_ to get by man."

He scratched his ear self-consciously, "It's… kind of complicated."

Watson's eyes narrowed, head straightened, "You mean there's a girl involved." He reproached, rolling his eyes the minute that Nigel indicated he'd hit the mark, "Honestly Griffin could you _be_ more predictable?"

"You haven't met her James she's-"

"Charming, no doubt, and exorbitantly expensive. Let me guess, you've run up debts to the eyeballs?"

He shuffled where he stood, as if he wanted to argue but knew he rightly couldn't, "That would be about right, yeah."

Watson sighed dramatically, lowering his cane a little, "Look, Griffin, don't do this old chap, it's absolute madness. If you're missing the thrill of adventure there's always plenty to be had around Helen, you know that! Why don't you come back - lend us a hand, join us now and then?"

Nigel looked unsure at first, his face contorting as if to say 'Nah,' and launch into a hundred and one excuses.

"Just put that money back where you found it," Watson continued, "and we'll discuss this like civilised men. Perhaps come to some arrangement whereby you can right your wrongs?"

"What, in a cell?"

"No." James' attention shifted briefly to the door, making sure no one was coming and continued quietly, "At the Sanctuary."

Griffin stared at those beady brown eyes, clearly suspicious. It couldn't be as easy as saying sorry after what he'd done… could it? Sure, Watson wasn't LeStrade – he knew the consulting detective had a tendency to bend the rules himself, let alone allow for certain individuals to remain undetected. The girls who'd murdered their abusive abnormal father, the mother who'd stolen back her son… what was a misguided thief among friends?

"Look," Watson attempted to reassure him, "it's your choice… but if we play this game, I assure you, you're not getting out of this bank a free man."

He knew James well enough not to doubt this boast, for though it seemed unlikely that he might've anticipated for an invisible opponent, he might well have concocted a plan where visibility was unnecessary for success. Realising the idiocy of this entire situation, Griffin relented.

"Alright," he sighed with no small amount of relief, starting to put the money back from whence it came. "So what did you do, set up LeStrade by the outer door?"

Watson merely smirked knowingly, "Oh wouldn't you like to know?"

Nigel smiled gamely at that, "Can't blame a man from trying." He went invisible again, presuming it would be the safest way for them to escape.

"Come on," James pointed the way they came, "follow my lead... The first stop for you, my friend, is to tell that floosy of yours that if its only money she's after, she can go to Hell."

Sighing Nigel filed out the door. "You wouldn't be saying that in my position – trust me. What that girl don't know about-"

"_Thank you_ Nigel, I'm sure I don't need intimate details of your conquests."

He tutted at his friend's sense of propriety, "I think _we_ need to hit the pub mate, you're all wound up again."

Watson rolled his eyes, yet again, concentrating on the first part of the trap which they had yet to get passed, "Only if you can prove your days of wanton thievery are over."

The sharp reminder of his disapproval rendered Griffin a little less playful. "Point made." He bit out, "I suppose she was a little high maintenance anyway."

* * *

_**Author's Post Note**_: Yeah, I know, I'm gonna leave it there because I am LAaAZY. Also can't be bothered to figure out the secret plan (there! I admitted it! Now leave me alone!)


	2. Chapter 2 - At the Mountains of Madness

"_At the Mountains of Madness"_

**Manicouagan, ****Quebec**

**March 1895**

Nigel was freezing his knackers off in the cold, wondering whether frostbitten skin would be quite as invisible as healthy epidermis. Oh well, it seemed today they'd be doing a little side experiment to go with the field study of whatever globular life form they were hunting after! It might be the tail end of March, but the Quebecois winter held on tight to the land, and even now it was only thirty degrees Fahrenheit. Just below freezing.

Dashing back to Helen's foxhole he slid in the dirt, whispering earnestly, "Gimme my coat back then."

Magnus quickly pulled it off of herself and passed the heavy fur-lined overcoat to the solid mass of nothing on her left. "Any joy?" she asked, turning binoculars across the frost-bitten reservoir to allow him the privacy to make himself decent and sling on some trousers.

"Oooh God," he quivered at the icy temperature of the trousers, wishing he had his long johns, "yeah, I think so. North East of our position. There was some phosphorescent glimmers in the woods, but by the time I got there they'd scattered. Tracks indicated westwards, towards the reservoir, but it might be worth you takin' a look at whatever the hell they were eating."

"You couldn't tell?" she looked at Nigel properly, interested by this little titbit. After three years traipsing round the British Empire, Griffin had gotten pretty good at tracking, and hunting, so she was a little surprised to hear he was stumped.

"They didn't leave the bones, and they were pretty messy… to be honest I didn't hang around to take a closer look."

Helen gazed thoughtfully, trying to make sense of the new data, and knowing she properly couldn't until she saw it for herself. "Alright then," she got up, pulling their backpacks together, "we best make headway before dark."

Griffin shivered at the thought of the oncoming night, "Why was it we had to go camping in winter again?"

She smiled jovially at his reticence, and he smiled in return, following her lead and gathering his stuff.

"If we could be sure that the Memekueshu are healthy I would wait until it was a little warmer, but the minute those bears wake up they're going to disappear and we still have no idea where they go, so…"

"We freeze in the forest."

"For the time being." She replied, still smiling and very much enjoying the scenery to her first big expedition without her father, "I'm sure we'll catch them soon, and you're right, their food will probably give us a much better idea of what we're dealing with."

"When we get back to the cabin I'm goin' to build the biggest fire imaginable, and cook a proper meal, and find that bottle of whisky the old coot thinks he's hidden under the floorboards."

"Nigel," she chastised light-heartedly, chuckling as they meandered along the water edge in the direction he'd come from, "Mr Simpson's been kind enough to lend us his home-"

"Don't get me wrong," Griffin pointed out hastily, "I appreciate his help and all, but you didn't have to put up with him on month-long stints cutting lumber."

He'd recounted some of his three months of Summer labour in his letters back to London, so Magnus was already well aware of Nigel's objections to the man.

"Seriously, it's worse than Tesla when he takes one of his turns," Griffin was surprised to notice Helen didn't do the double disbelieving take he would've expected at such a remark, "Moan, moan, monologue, moan… only _infinitely_ more dull. As if I gave a fig about precisely how many steps he had to take, or the contents of his gruel…" She was still watching her feet as the scrambled up an incline. "How is the old chap anyway? Tesla that is – I take it you landed in New York?"

She was surprisingly quiet, carefully making her way through some undergrowth before slipping a little on the rocks. Then, before he grew concerned enough to prod her she sighed, "Taking a turn as we speak…" she muttered, "well, I mean, hopefully he'll have recovered a little by now."

"Why, what happened?"

She let Nigel take the lead at the intersection of tracks she was following, but he took a good look at Magnus as he passed, concerned by the soft tone of her voice. Something serious was going on. He stopped, and she made a pointed look.

"His laboratory burned to the ground."

Nigel's eyebrows shot into his hairline, "Bloody hell." It took a moment to imagine such a thing – losing all your work, all your inventions. God if it had been Nigel losing some five years of blood sweat and tears even he'd be in a bad way, and Griffin had never really put as much of himself into his work as Tesla, or Helen, or even James.

"It was in the papers the day I arrived," she shook her head, wide-eyed as she recalled the state she'd found him in.

"That's rough luck."

"Well, you know Nikola," the hint of censure was obvious, "it's never just luck, it has to be _somebody_'s fault-"

"And never his own," Griffin chuckled.

Helen half-smiled pensively, "If he was still human I'd be worried he was driving himself into an early grave, the way he's obsessing over it."

"He's that bad?"

"Not seen him like this since…" she just looked at him, didn't need to say it. Since the first time he'd lost control over his vampiric side, since she'd found the treatment to his unsavoury addiction to blood.

Griffin gave a low whistle, "Maybe I'll pop by and see him once we're done with the Memekushuduwlu-"

"Memekueshu?"

"Yeah, the rock people – they're slippery little buggers tho' ain't they?"

"Nigel!" she admonished him for the language, but she clearly wasn't particularly shocked.

"Huh?"

"_Language_." She whispered as they edged into the interior away from the main lake.

His smile was heartfelt and warm, "Sorry Helen," he chuckled, focusing back on the task on hand. "What did you say they looked like again?"

"Well" she kept her voice down, "the Innu medicine man described them as being child sized, and hairy, and making sounds like the whine of a dragonfly."

"Sounds like a winning combination."

_**Author's Note:**_

I just realised Griffin has a terrible tendency to make puns.

Thanks to tellie for reviewing already! You are awesome.

And yes, Helen is purposefully inconsistent over censoring his language, because she can be so there :p


	3. Chapter 3 - The Man Who Would Be King

"_The Man Who Would Be King_"

**North East India**

**May 1894**

It was only nine in the morning and already the temperature was rocketing up to eighty-six degrees. So Griffin didn't feel the slightest bit apologetic for the gin and tonic currently sliding down his oesophagus. It was medicinal. Medicine for a Brit out of water, so to speak. It was the only way he could manage the long heat that preluded the Monsoon deluge. Boy was he glad to have missed it in '93, and he certainly had _no_ intention of being here for it next year. Give him Afghanistan or the Himalayas any day, at least in the mountains there was some reprieve!

"A little early for tipple isn't it?" Watson enquired wryly, making Nigel stir on his bar stool and straighten out.

He did his best to ignore the observation and the underlying assumptions it implied, "Ready then?"

James prudently let the subject drop, though he had to admit curiosity at the effects of the last couple of years on his friend. It seemed that adventuring across continents predisposed one to becoming increasingly coarse – not that Nigel had been particularly refined to start with.

"Time to meet Mr Saha," Watson smiled, putting his hat on.

With a brief nod Griffin slipped off his chair and finished his drink in one gulp, "Right. I just hope the runt's not running on bloody Punjab time."

Leading the way out of the hotel, Nigel smoothly placed his own hat on his head and stepped into the shockingly bright sun. The heat saturated him within seconds, making his starched collar feel altogether too tight. God he'd be glad for a swim when they got back, if the water wasn't boiling that is.

"Where did you arrange to meet?" James enquired quietly as they meandered on foot through the growing crowds of people.

"_I_ didn't." Griffin pointed out, "Farrell said he'd be found at the back of the army encampment around half nine. Part of his usual routine – pedalling his wares."

Watson hummed thoughtfully at that. He'd already been briefed over the stock and trade the Indian was known for. Bringing British soldiers a little illicit fun through opiates predominately, arsenic and cocaine from time to time. All well tested stimulants for the white market, who – as Watson well knew – could easily afford such indulgences here. That the soldiers faced a strict discipline for using them during service hardly seemed to matter to Mr Saha's brain-bored customers, and the druggist, it seemed, was nothing if not enterprising.

They rounded a dusty corner to a road that ran the length of a high wall. The nearest buildings were more than six feet away, tall, and ramshackle, with paint flaking on the outside. If he was feeling charitable Griffin might have termed it _rustic_: the wall was in fact the perimeter he had just described, and an opening just up ahead made for the gate to the military presence in the town. With the recent disturbances, the garrison had been full for months.

Continuing to follow the wall, the road began to narrow, and as the crowds thinned out so the buildings loomed a little closer. It was then Watson noticed that the discernable tracks of man and handcart he'd picked up five minutes ago lead to a figure in the road up ahead: a short, wiry man with brown skin, wearing cool Indian cotton, and a curiously British looking suit jacket. The man's cart proudly proclaimed '_Dispensary'_ in English – clearly taking the angle that it was easier for one's activities to be overlooked when they were carried on in plain sight.

"I believe, that would be our man," James whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Nigel had noticed him a little slower amongst the plants which hung, dried and shrivelled, from the wall at which he stood, but his attention was fixed on him now. Steeling himself for the inevitable interrogation, they caught the man's eyes and made their way towards him.

Mr Saha's smile was a brilliant white beneath a dark, perfectly groomed moustache. He didn't see the tall apparition emerge from a cloud of red behind him, thought nothing of the odd, slightly electrical sound, until a knife had already forced its way into his flesh. Ripping up through his kidneys, and into his spleen, Mr Saha's assailant lodged two hollow eyes on the men in front of him. They baulked, hesitating for the barest of moments, in absolute horror.

It was James who recovered first, taking up his concealed firearm and levelling it between John's eyes. As he shot, Griffin started towards him, to grab Druitt if he had time, and save the drug wallah if he could. It all happened at once – the bullet whistled past, glancing near Druitt's ear as he disappeared into the ether. Whether it was the nerves, or a lingering note of friendship, which caused James to miss his intended target, he didn't want to dwell.

The dispensary fell to his knees, coughing up blood and going into shock as Nigel reached him, and pulled him into his arms.

"Stay with us," he implored, "God damn it, _Watson_, get over here!" After all, Nigel wasn't a doctor. "Bloody 'ell."

Saha's lifeblood was leaking everywhere, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it – the Ripper had lived up to his title, yet again.

James' sharp eyes surveyed the scene the very instant he'd lost sight of him, and now his mind was doing overtime. Why was Druitt here? To taunt _him_? No. To protect the abnormal dealer, that much was clear, but why? To what end? Was he dealing in creatures now as well as killing women? Or had he become a mercenary to hire? The thought sent cold shivers through his skin.

"**James**!"

Stunned, the sound of Griffin's voice finally registered with the shaken Watson, and he dashed over to aid the dying man.

"Bad luck old boy," Called a sinister voice from above.

They both looked up at the man now on the rooftops, a sardonic, slightly masochistic grin from his bloodied face, half-hidden beneath the curtain of long, lank hair.

"Looks like the _trail_ ends here."

Griffin frowned angrily at Druitt, about to give him an earful when, predictably, the menace teleported away. "Twisted little shit!"

While he vocalised their frustration Mr Saha had all but perished; his last haunting gasp finally punctuating the ensuing silence.

"We have to find him," Watson's hard voice intoned. "Druitt must be staying here, _somewhere_, in the vicinity."

"And how'd you figure that?" Griffin complained, standing up from the dead man, worried that he might need to nock some sense into his usually brilliant friend, "He could be half-way round the world for all we know and just popping in for a biscuit and some _tea_!"

James frowned angrily at him, "_Because_ Nigel," he began to pick his way towards the less savoury side of town, forcing Griffin to follow him and abandon Mr Saha to the ground, "either he's been following _us_, or our dangerous-species-dealer knows we're onto him and has identified Mr Saha as the weak link that needed breaking. Either way, not even Druitt could've just dropped into an unknown town in precisely the right spot without doing some kind of reconnaissance, so spare me-"

"What about Saha?" he deliberately stopped them in their tracks.

He turned on him peevishly, "Griffin. Is Mr Saha dead?"

Nigel didn't humour him. He wasn't stupid, and didn't care for the unspoken comparison. Instead he stared back reproachfully.

"How is our caring for his body going to make any difference to catching the murderer, except to cause us _to lose him_? We've no _time_ for sentiment Griffin."

Griffin expelled a low breath of air at the risen tempers Druitt had provoked, "Right." He grumbled, not entirely happy with the situation, but forced to relent against James' dogged pursuit.

"If we hurry we might catch him," the detective asserted, and then almost as an afterthought, "or a clue that leads us to our man."

Griffin knew as well as he did that with John's ability, that the latter was the most they could really hope for.

_**Author's Note**_: Just a quick disclaimer - so we're clear: what is expressed in the narrative, or character speech, is not necessarily representative of my own opinions! These are Victorian men, lest you forget, and things weren't exactly PC in those days. On another note, I couldn't research a specific place for this so let's say; it's not a big-assed city, but a railroad town somewhere between Calcutta and the heart of the Ganges, where the army are stationed.

Also yes I meant masochistic not sadistic – I always feel that John has an underlying self-hate as the Ripper, that he knows what he's doing is wrong, and doesn't take any pleasure in knowing that – though he takes a lot of pleasure in the doing of it!


	4. Chapter 4 - The Moon Pool

"_The Moon Pool_"

**April 1895**

**Niagara Falls**

He didn't have to look far to find out where the 'wizard of electricity' was staying: oh how he looked forward to teasing Tesla over that nomenclature when he got the chance. News of his presence in the small town was all over the papers, along with the anticipated nay-sayers predicting the failure of his grandest experiment to date… or so the journalists had chosen to frame it. No doubt the Serb had had a hand in all the fuss; he was after all, a consummate self-publicist.

The hotel was, frankly, the only establishment in town worth staying in. Unremarkable, but appropriately fitted, and distinctly lacking the grandeur Tesla had last treated him to in New York. Funny what a difference six months could make.

Nigel made for the bar before he went in search of him, thirsty after the day's travel, and keen to have a moment's reprieve before facing whatever emotional wreck Nikola had become. He was a little surprised, actually, by how much he gave a toss. The thought of their most disagreeable friend being knocked down a peg or two had always amused him, but it was mostly for the ease with which he always managed to brush the Brits off, carrying on being his usual, contrary self, regardless of their taunts.

Losing his laboratory and all that research was, for Tesla, like losing your home to a family of ten; and Griffin had found himself wondering on more than one occasion whether it might be enough to turn him into the madman they'd always, not-so-secretly teased him for being. What he hadn't expected, however, was to be faced with the answer almost as soon as he'd settled at the bar.

"Griffin?"

Nigel span his head, landing on Nikola hovering just to his right, and smiled. The look of knotted confusion on Tesla's face was just priceless; his small eyes suspiciously gauging what might have led to Nigel's presence here, a splayed hand cautiously resting against his torso as though it were the only way it would stay still for five seconds.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

His reserved, accented voice didn't sound any different to the last time they had met, though Griffin's undoubtedly held the taint of Canadian twang by now. "Ah, you know, just passing through." He smiled cheekily, holding his hand out to shake.

It was a testament to Nikola's regard for him that he, a little hesitantly, accepted the germ-ridden hand – and knowing Griffin, it was probably just _infested_ with micro-bacteria.

"Really?" the vampire continued to eye him with suspicion.

"Oh come on mate, take a seat – does it really matter? Do I _need_ a reason to visit?"

Griffin's warm, friendly bluster was reassuring enough that Tesla, gradually, slowly took a seat near to him.

"What are you 'avin'?" he sniffed, "Can't tempt you to have a beer I suppose?"

Tesla's upper lip recoiled, "Please Nigel, don't insult me."

"Gin perhaps?"

He glared, half-heartedly, a ghost of a smile forming beneath his moustache even as he crossed his arms, "Englishmen," he shook his head with mock disapproval and accompanying sigh, "absolutely no taste in beverages."

Nigel smiled in return, grabbing the barkeep and putting in an order for one beer, and a glass of expensive red wine.

Tesla made an interested sound, "Are you in need of something? Something you'd rather the others didn't know about, perhaps?"

"No," Nigel laughed, "why?"

He stared at him plainly, "Spending that much on wine? Either you want me to do something, or there's something wrong with your head." He smirked, taking his first sip and finding it rather delicious.

Griffin merely shrugged, rather surprised at the swift and playful response. If he hadn't have heard about the fire, he might never have guessed it had happened. Certainly, he wouldn't have thought Magnus would've been so worried over him if he was like this when she'd left. Clearly something had improved his mood.

"You're recovering then?" he fished a little more sombrely, "From the… incident."

Tesla's expression dropped almost instantly as he stared into his glass and wouldn't look up, until his face was so serious that Griffin no longer doubted the downward spiral Magnus had described. "Helen told you about that," he said, voice a little thinner than it should've been.

"Yeah…" Nigel felt a little guilty for bringing it up now, "she mentioned it."

He raised an eyebrow at that, a sceptical look that said he had no doubt over the picture she'd painted and the motivation behind his friend's sudden appearance.

"You seem to be coping better than I thought you would."

He smirked cockily, about to make some derisory retort no doubt, when a light female voice called his Christian name from the door.

For the second time tonight Griffin found himself surprised, eyes darting to the stately blonde now approaching them. Her smile was radiant. _Never a dull moment_, he mused to himself, noticing the furtive, slightly alarmed, look which slipped over Tesla's face, as he realised the inevitability of _introductions_. Curious. Suddenly his friend's reactions were more intriguing than the way the attractive woman walked in her form-fitting clothes, or her rather marvellous bosom.

"Why _Mr Tesla_," she teased in her cheery, Washington accent – clearly the formality was not one they commonly observed, "you simply must introduce me to your _friend_ here."

Nikola's lopsided smile appeared, eying the two of them with a certain mischief which was only covering his apprehension.

"Mrs Katharine Johnson, may I introduce notorious scoundrel, Mr Nigel Griffin."

"Hey!"

"Mr Griffin, the endlessly affable Mrs Johnson."

She looked at their mutual acquaintance as if disappointed, "Endlessly affable?"

"Would you have preferred something along the lines of brilliant, illuminating… or enchanting, perhaps?"

"Oh honestly Nikola," she chuckled, providing Griffin with her full attention – though he was still just a little astounded at the sight of Tesla… actually _flirting_… with a girl, "a pleasure Mr Griffin, I am sure Mr Tesla is merely teasing."

Well clearly she knew him well enough, "Oh no doubt madam." He beamed, rather enamoured with her as she offered her hand for him to kiss. "I've known him long enough to learn, not to pay too much attention to _anything_ he says."

He could hear Tesla tut, more than see him. Griffin was too busy taking in the almost familiar, cagey smile _Mrs_ Johnson gave him.

"Ah, well," she glanced at Nikola, "it seems I am addressing a true expert then."

The vampire's smile was seemingly unrelenting.

"I had just come to let you know that there's news. On the basis of the test today, Westinghouse and the board have confirmed the go ahead on the generators."

Tesla's face ignited with happiness like a light bulb, and in an instant Griffin knew precisely how it was his spirits had been restored. "Excellent." He beamed, "In that case Katharine, you must join us in a toast."

She laughed, "Oh no, no," she pleaded with a smile, "you know I get headaches when I drink."

Griffin's mind automatically wondered under what circumstances the two had ever spent time drinking…

"When we're back in New York," she insisted, "Robert and I will treat you to a fine glass of the most expensive champagne."

To Nigel's surprise Tesla's smile didn't diminish, the hopefulness still present, despite the obvious allusion to a husband sharing her time. The plot thickened.

"I shall hold you to that." He smiled, genuinely, a flicker of tenderness in his eyes.

_Katharine_ was already looking as though she were ready to leave, glancing between the two men, undecided about whether she should indulge her own curiosity and get to know Griffin a little better, or allow Nikola to spend time with the man whom, she could only presume, had some connection to Miss Helen Magnus. Prudently, she chose to avoid exposing herself any longer to the questioning glances of his ill-prepared friend, and excused herself from their presence.

"A pleasure meeting you." Nigel offered.

She paused a moment, her cobalt eyes assessing him, "And you Mr Griffin. Don't you go leading Mr Tesla to any trouble now."

He chuckled, "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure he'll create enough on his own account."

Eying him vivaciously, Katharine departed for the comforts of another room, leaving a rather apprehensive Tesla, assessing the flurry of surprise, concern, amusement, and amazement on his English friend's face. In the end he only had to look at Tesla, it said it all.

"So where's _Mr_ Johnson?" he prompted.

"New York."

Nearly chocking on the swig of his pint, Nigel's eyebrows shot up even higher into his receding hairline – if that was possible. "Well," he snorted sarcastically, "you don't aim high _at all_."

Nikola visibly straightened at the insinuation – more for his feelings being so openly discussed, than because Griffin was wrong. Tesla was, however, doing his damnedest to avoid the nudging look Nigel was giving him for some kind of explanation. It didn't take long for him to break under the Englishman's long-perfected stare.

"Look, it's not as if there's anything actually going on between us. She's a married woman," he explained, "I would never, _could_ never do that to her."

Another sceptical look: though it wasn't hard for Griffin to believe. Tesla's powers of self-restraint had never ceased to amaze Nigel, who had always found it quite hard to resist taking up the last biscuit, or going for that one extra pint before calling it a night. In fact, they'd always joked in Oxford – when Helen wasn't around, obviously – that if Nikola actually ever got a hard on he probably reasoned himself out of it instead of wanking like any normal man.

Besides which his adoration for Magnus had become just as obvious as this by the time his vampirism had fully emerged, and he had never once acted on that impulse. So, frankly, when Tesla said nothing was going on, he believed him.

Still didn't stop him teasing though, "Hey, whatever you say mate, _I_ wouldn't judge you. Would be 'bout time, I'd say."

"And of course you would be the perfect arbiter," he snapped caustically, taking Griffin a little by surprise with the lack of humour in the otherwise expected retort.

Oh poor bugger, Nigel thought to himself, smiling into his pint, _he's gotten it bad_.

* * *

**Author's Note**: There is frustratingly little about Katharine Johnson, or even her husband, Robert, online. And I have no reference point really for Kat's character beside the fact that she was likely a vivacious person, as she was particularly flirty in her letters (apparently) and probably liked to bring real life Tesla out of his shell somewhat? Well, I mean, the Johnson's were really the only way Tesla got introduced to anyone interesting in NY society so… *shrug* that's what I'd presume. Also, I don't think Tesla actually personally attended the testing of the turbine... but eh whatev-s.

Oh look, what a surprise, the only story featuring Tesla's taken up the most screen time (woops)… sorry guys. My Tesla-fan-dom is creeping in again.

DISCLAIMER Now, having been brought up the way I've been brought up (i.e. well! Ha!) I don't really see how any teenager over 13 would _not_ know, or be about to learn, what hard-ons and wanking is. Likewise, as a Brit, we don't really find swears like bugger all that offensive, so I would argue I needn't change the rating. IF however this liberality has offended you, I offer my sincerest apologies, and will happily change the rating if you _politely_ express your concern. Because this is, after all, an internet community, and just because we're behind computer screens doesn't mean we can't be considerate towards others.


End file.
